Gimme somma' dat!
I grew up in a blue-collar, ethnic neighborhood. We had the railroad to the south, the Catholic Church and grade school to the west, and tree-lined neighborhoods full of a colorful cast of characters to the north and east. How so? Oh, we had the young marrieds, the married forever, the widowers, WWII vets, a pimp and his girls, Polish immigrants, the guys bunking at the fire house that used to play dodge ball with us, and... the candy ladies.
As I was putting my birthday treat together for work, I remember fondly the candy ladies of the neighborhood. There was Mrs. O., our next-door neighbor who was good for those thick, chalky pink or white peppermints. Up the street in the white house with the black shutters was June, who kept her treats in a big glass dish on her enclosed porch. And over on Pringle, on the corner of Tomlinson, was the unnamed lady who sat on her porch and beamed when all we little kindergartners would troop by, say hello, and she would dole out the safety suckers to our tiny, outstretched hands.
What I love about this was the sheer generosity of these ladies. At first glance, there was absolutely nothing to gain for these ladies handing out sweets randomly to neighborhood kids, and everything to gain for us. But I think this simple gesture did so much more.
Mrs. O was a widow, and our next door neighbor. We loved her, and she shared a birthday with our dad. There was more than just candy between us, we helped her pick pears from her huge tree in the back and she always sent us home with a basket of fruit for ourselves, plus a tomato or two for dad, a rose for mom. But we also helped her rake leaves and play with her two little dogs. In turn, as latchkey kids, I also believe Mrs. O, sitting on her front or back porch, kept an eye on us for our parents when we were home alone.
June too was a widower, and an avid gardener. Her nieces were our classmates, and she would watch them on occasion after school. We rarely went to her door with our hands outstretched, she would instead call us over after shopping to announce she got a new kind of candy, and did we want to share in her new stash? June had a gate in the back of her lawn that allowed us to cut the corner to get to school a few minute earlier. I think being a widower without children of her own left June a bit lonely, and with kids in her front yard willing to pull weeds or play in the street in front, left her with fine company. I remember thinking of her as being much older than my parents, but she is still alive and wow, I'm over 40, so that makes her... really old?
And the unnamed lady on the corner over my the Tomlinson school? It kills me not to know her name, I just remember a flowered apron, a sweet smile and thinking maybe she was a million years old. Remember, blue-collar in the 70s, so not a whole lot of extra money going around. We kids always managed to scrounge a few pennies somewhere for candy (sorry mom, think we hit the tootsie roll bank a few too many times), but not all kids in the neighborhood could manage even that. I'd like to think maybe she was a girl during the Depression that as an adult, provided a little lift to the kids around her whose parents were struggling during the recession.
When I think of them visually, in abstract, I see a fabric basket weave, in butterscotch, pinks and greens. I think of peppermint and chocolate. There's the lingering scent of mothballs, clean dirt, and roses. When I think of them as a being, I see them larger than life, protective watchdogs that could tell a worried mom, a cop, or a babysitter who, what, where, and when. As for the why, they would just shake their heads, and offer a peppermint.
We moved into our first house in Wyoming in 1997. First thing I did was buy a large jar of sour kids gum to keep in the house just in case the neighbor kids came by. Sure enough, Lindsay, Guy, Zach and the little blond kid from across the street would wander by, wondering if I had any treats for them. Then they stayed to tell me all about it.
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